


The Adventure of the Left Shoe

by Jolie_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Doctor John Watson, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Pre-Reichenbach, Screenplay/Script Format, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, missing moment, still canon compliant after season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Sherlock’s secret bolt-holes in London is Molly Hooper’s bedroom, and that’s CANON. But how on earth did that happen? - A missing moment from just before “The Reichenbach Fall”. Action, Friendship, and a goodly dose of Hurt/Comfort - or it would be, if Sherlock  would ever allow that sort of thing. Unrequited Sherlock/Molly, 100 % canon compatible (including season 4).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the Case of the Kidnapped Banker, just before “The Reichenbach Fall”. 
> 
> The idea of Sherlock doing Parkour in his full coated and scarfed glory is not mine. It was planted in my head by the dear Zatoichi on the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum during a silly little discussion as to how Sherlock keeps so fit without ever working out. 
> 
> As always, your feedback is much appreciated!

_Night time. An industrial compound somewhere in London, sparsely lit and apparently deserted. A long, low brick building with several large doors, all closed, like a huge garage. A driveway of broken concrete leading away from the doors, large puddles of oily water in its cracks. The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard, echoing loudly in the silence - a single person running at top speed. A moment later, the figure of a man in a dark coat rounds the corner of the building at full tilt, races down the driveway, leaps neatly over one of the larger puddles in his way, then skitters to a halt just in front of the gates of the compound. They are huge, more than twice a man’s height, and made of thick vertical steel bars, not a foothold anywhere._

_Seen in close-up, Sherlock Holmes glances upwards, then right and left, making up his mind. He’s breathing hard, a vein pulsing in the side of his neck. As abruptly as he has stopped, he gets moving again, turning right towards the mesh-wire fence surrounding the compound. He jumps and makes a grab for the wires above his head, his feet - in smart, black shoes - angling for a hold in the narrow gaps and failing to find one. He abandons the attempt and pulls himself up hand-over-hand to the top of the fence, which sways precariously under his weight. Across to the other side, he lowers himself about half-way down and then lets go, dropping neatly into the bushes outside the compound. He straightens up. At that instant, the momentary silence is broken by the sound of more running feet, this time clearly of more than one person. Sherlock whirls round back towards the garage. Two or three points of flashlight are visible in the distance, bobbing up and down. Confused shouting of several male voices can be heard, and it becomes clear that this is not a training session on an obstacle course but a manhunt in deadly earnest. Sherlock takes to his heels, straight across the straggling undergrowth, dry branches cracking under his feet. He's clearly more concerned with speed than with secrecy. He slithers down a steep brambly slope and comes out onto a road. There is a screech of metal on concrete somewhere behind him, presumably the gates being opened, and the roar of a car engine being started. Sherlock sets off down the street, brambles on one side, a long brick wall on the other. Above him, a man with a torchlight has reached the fence and is sweeping the bushes beyond it, but Sherlock has already moved beyond the range of the light. Now a car can be heard coming down the lane, its tires screeching. Sherlock swerves to his left and runs straight at the brick wall, his impetus carrying him half-way up. He makes a grab for the upper edge, pulls himself up to the top and makes to jump down on the other side, when suddenly a furious barking starts in the darkness below, and the sound of a rattling chain almost choking a madly aggressive dog can be heard.  
_

MAN’S VOICE _(off-screen):_ He’s there!

_Sherlock recoils, straightens up and runs along the precariously narrow top of the wall like a demented tight-rope walker. There is more shouting behind him. A few more steps, and he has reached a point where another, lower wall branches off to his left, away from the road. He turns onto that one and continues for maybe ten more yards._

SECOND MAN’S VOICE _(off-screen):_ We’ve got him!

_Without looking back, Sherlock jumps. He lands awry, his left foot turning inwards at a sickly angle when he hits the ground. He stumbles and falls, landing on his hands and knees, pulls himself half up and comes down again heavily. He looks up ahead, baring clenched teeth, and sees a car parked immediately in front of him. He drags himself over to it, sidles around it and settles down with his back against its other side. In close-up, he is sweating heavily, his eyes squeezed shut, drawing great shuddering breaths, listening intently. After a short pause, he pulls out his phone from the inside pocket of his coat. His hand holding the phone is shaking slightly, and the skin of his palm is badly scratched. He hides the glow from the phone within his coat and rapidly punches some buttons with the tip of a grimy thumb. A section of a streetmap appears on the screen. He looks at it for no more than a second, commits it to memory, then slips the phone back into his pocket. He listens again for a moment, but both the car and the men on foot seem to have gone. He sighs in relief. Just as he makes to pick himself up -_

MAN’S VOICE _(off-screen, from the other side of the wall):_ He went over somewhere here!

_Sherlock jumps up and continues to run across what appears to be a communal car-park at the edge of a residential area, ducking low behind the cars wherever possible, and thus makes his way through a gap between two of them to a low steel barrier marking the boundary of the car-park. Too badly hurt or too tired to climb over it, he squeezes through underneath. An ordinary, suburban residential street opens before him. He closes his eyes for a moment, and before his mind’s eye appears the section of the streetmap we’ve just seen on his phone, but now there is a spot marked on it, a little blinking green dot and a blue line leading to it from a place marked “P” in the lower left hand corner, like a chart from a route planner. Sherlock’s eyes pop open again. He scrambles to his feet and sets off along the street, slowly and tentatively at first, gritting his teeth, then faster and faster again, although it is obvious that he can no longer do his former speed. The blue line on his inner route planner that connects his position with his destination begins to shorten slowly._

 

_A few minutes later. Sherlock turns a corner into another quiet residential street lined with small terraced houses. The windows of most of the houses are dark, but there are a few ones that are lit. Sherlock is is merely jogging now and limping rather badly. He slows down to a walk and searches the facades of the houses on his right. There is a glimmer of light in an upstairs window of the second house in the row. He walks towards it as quickly as he can, scrambles untidily over the low garden wall, crosses the front yard to the door with long but uneven strides and rings the doorbell. Silence. Sherlock glances up at the window, and rings the bell again. He's panting for air, not looking desperate just yet, but certainly getting nervous._

SHERLOCK _(under his breath):_ Come on, for God’s sake!

_From around the street corner, there’s the sound of a car approaching. Sherlock, wide-eyed, whirls around in the direction of the noise. At that moment, a lamp above the front door is switched on, and his dark figure is bathed in bright light, a perfect target. He cringes, looking left and right for somewhere to hide, but in the open yard, there’s nothing to hide behind. There’s a clank behind him as the front door opens on the chain. Sherlock swivels back towards the door. Molly Hooper’s face peeps out of the gap._

MOLLY: Who is it?

_Sherlock immediately reaches through the gap with one hand, fingering for the light switch on the inner wall, finds it and turns the lamp off._

SHERLOCK _(whispering):_ Let me in, quick.

_The sound of the car is getting louder and louder. The glow of its headlights can be seen at the street corner. Molly fumbles with the chain. As soon as the front door is half open, Sherlock sidles in, quick as lightning, and just as quickly closes the door again behind him. A car roars past Molly’s house and continues down the street without slowing down or stopping anywhere. Molly and Sherlock stand very still, facing each other in the narrow space just inside the door, listening to the receding noise of the car. Sherlock is still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. When all is silent again, Sherlock looks down at Molly and smiles reassuringly. There is very little light in the corridor, just enough for them to see each other’s faces. Molly is in a nondescript t-shirt and cardigan, her hair up in a loose bun, wide awake, her face a study in disbelief._

SHERLOCK _(still a little breathlessly):_ Good evening.

MOLLY _(settling on playing amused rather than admitting to being shocked):_ What on earth are you doing here?

SHERLOCK _(perfectly straight-faced):_ Working out.

MOLLY ( _taking in his heavy breathing and his sweaty face, frowning_ ): And now you just fancied a drink and a shower and I happened to be in the neighbourhood?

SHERLOCK: In a manner of speaking.

_A short pause._

MOLLY: So it’s true?

SHERLOCK: What is?

MOLLY ( _with a small grin):_ I hear you’re out doing Parkour all over Marylebone when you can’t sleep.

SHERLOCK: How do you know that?

MOLLY _(innocently):_ John says you do.

SHERLOCK: How does John know? _(Peevishly)_ He’s John Watson. He doesn’t _know_ things.

MOLLY: Apparently he does.

SHERLOCK: Oh, well. ( _Gesturing towards the inner rooms of the house.)_ Mind if I come in for a moment?

MOLLY: Not at all. _(Smiling and inviting him with a gesture of her hand)_ I’m upstairs.

SHERLOCK: After you.

_Molly leads the way up a flight of carpeted stairs to the first floor. We can see her smiling privately to herself, hardly able to contain her excitement. Sherlock follows her slowly, steadying himself on the banister, very careful not to put too much weight on his left foot, glancing up at Molly’s back furtively to make sure she isn’t watching. The moment she turns back towards him, half-way up the stairs, he freezes._

MOLLY: I didn’t imagine that you’d dress up for it, though.

SHERLOCK _(looking down his own person):_ I’m not dressed up. I wear this every day.

_Molly chuckles as she continues climbing the stairs._

_Upstairs, Molly enters her brightly lit living room, Sherlock behind her. It is a rather narrow, longish carpeted room, furnished in an unspectacular but cosy way, with a big, sand-coloured sofa plus coffee-table facing a TV and some bookshelves on one side, a small dining table with four chairs, below a window, on the other side. The moment Sherlock has passed through the door, he immediately switches off the light in this room, too._

MOLLY: Oh, you really don’t have to worry about that. We've got no nosy old ladies in the neighbourhood.

SHERLOCK: Nosy old ladies don’t bother me. I’ve got one right downstairs.

_He takes off his coat and carries it to an armchair a few paces away, still trying but by now failing to hide his limp. Molly’s eyes immediately fix on his legs._

MOLLY: What happ -

SHERLOCK _(glancing at her from out of the corner of his eye):_ Blisters. New shoes. Pinch a bit.

_In passing, he drops his coat on the armchair, then continues straight towards an open door at the end of the room._

MOLLY _(in a sudden panic):_ Sherlock -

_He’s almost at the door when -_

MOLLY _(sternly):_ Sherlock.

SHERLOCK _(turning back towards her):_ Yes?

MOLLY _(with emphasis on every single word)_ : That is my bedroom.

SHERLOCK _(not disconcerted in the least):_ Yes. Blame the moron who converted this house into flats for making it the one room that overlooks the street.

_Without waiting for an answer, he walks on through the open door into the dark room beyond. Molly hurries after him._

SHERLOCK _(over his shoulder):_ No light, please.

MOLLY _(a little tetchily):_ Yes, I got that.

 

_Molly’s bedroom, faintly illuminated by a street-lamp outside the window, is small and very tidy. It has pink wallpaper, a thick carpet, and two windows with blinds facing the street. The blinds are down, but they're the type that let you adjust the slats so as to let in some light. The main article of furniture in the room is, of course, the bed - a girl’s dream, with a plushy bed-head of pink velvet, covered with a shimmering, satiny quilted bedspread with a riot of large pink and yellow roses printed on it. Beside it is an – in comparison - almost disappointingly mundane white IKEA-style bedside cabinet with a clock radio on top of it, and some magazines. Another door, on the left as one enters, stands open, revealing a small en-suite bathroom._

_Sherlock takes in all of this with a single glance as he walks straight to the left-hand window, between the bed and the bathroom door. He inserts two fingers into the gap between the slats of the blinds and pushes them apart a little so as to get a better view of the street. He checks both ends, turning his head to the left and then to the right. As he does, a horizontal ribbon of light from the street-lamp falls across his face, revealing a small, dried trickle of blood from a graze at his temple, half hidden under his hair. Molly sees it and grimaces in sympathy._

MOLLY _:_ Sherlock -

SHERLOCK _(his eyes still on the street):_ Yes?

MOLLY _(quietly)_ : You’re bleeding.

SHERLOCK: No. It stopped ten minutes ago.

_A short silence, then suddenly Sherlock jumps almost out of his skin._

SHERLOCK: Argh!

MOLLY _(deeply concerned)_ What is it?

_Sherlock looks down at his feet. Toby, Molly’s cat, has walked up to him silently and unnoticed, and is now rubbing himself against Sherlock’s injured leg the way cats do, purring contentedly. Molly also looks down, and can't help laughing._

MOLLY: Oh, it’s just Toby. Did he startle you? He _likes_ you.

SHERLOCK _(deeply irritated, standing rigidly, obviously making a great effort not to aim a kick at the cat):_ Can you tell him not to do that, please?

_Without hurry, Molly picks Toby up and bundles him into her arms, scratching him behind the ears._

MOLLY: I can try. Cats are not so easily trained, I’m afraid. ( _A note of mischief stealing into her voice_ ) They’re independent... proud... _(She looks from Toby to Sherlock, but he has turned his back to continue his watch on the street.)_ Solitary hunters. Secretive at times, mercurial, and shockingly sulky when the mood takes them.

SHERLOCK: Makes you wonder why people put up with them, doesn't it?

 _Molly sighs visibly but inaudibly and_ _puts Toby back onto the floor, shooing him gently back towards the living room. Toby stalks off, his tail held high in contempt and hurt pride._

MOLLY _(to Sherlock, attempting a light tone):_ You’d prefer a dog, I suppose.

_Sherlock turns back towards Molly then. For a short moment, a shadow of real pain seems to cross his face._

MOLLY ( _devastated)_ : Oh, sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot. That nasty beast.

SHERLOCK _(already back in full control of himself):_ Never mind. ( _With a wry grin_ ) Never mention it to John, though. _(Abruptly)_ All right. All quiet now. Didn’t you say something about -

_He stops short. For the first time since he’s entered the bedroom, the wall opposite the windows has come fully into his view. It has the same pink wallpaper as the rest of the room, and there is nothing on it except one large poster. It is a reproduction of Turner's “Falls of the Reichenbach”. Underneath the picture, it says_

THE GRAND TOUR.

Turner on the Continent.

NATIONAL GALLERY, London, Sept. 19th 1998 - March 27 th  1999

_Sherlock frowns. Molly turns to see what has got his attention. She blushes crimson, looking like she wishes the ground would open up and swallow her._

MOLLY _(apologetically, almost stammering):_ Oh, that. Just - just a souvenir.

_Sherlock gives her a sharp, enquiring look, then turns away again to scan the poster and the wall around it with his eyes. In extreme close-up, all four corners of the poster are revealed to be slightly dog-eared. The edges of the paper are yellowed, and there are several old pin holes in each corner. Sherlock's examination of the wall around it reveals the sharp outlines of two square spaces where the wallpaper is a much darker and richer shade of pink than the area surrounding them. Obviously two smaller pictures have hung side by side on that wall for a long time before being replaced by the poster. Words start rolling up on the „screen“ of Sherlock’s mind's eye:_

recently put up - original exhibition poster - at least two previous owners - collector’s item - current Ebay prices > 40 **£**

_His frown deepens. In the background, Molly’s voice continues._

MOLLY: I - I went there once, with my mum and dad -

_Sherlock glances at her as if to say “Don't try”. She meets his eyes for a very short moment, then turns back towards the poster and keeps talking determinedly._

MOLLY: With my mum and dad, when I was a girl. Wonderful place. _(Enthusiastically)_ It’s like nothing else I’ve ever seen, majestic, larger than life, like nothing can touch it. _(Quieter again, almost wistfully)_ It makes you feel so silly and small... But still you can’t take your eyes off it, it’s so... _(she turns back towards Sherlock, her eyes wide and bright)_ ... beautiful.

_Sherlock doesn’t reply. He studies her face intently for a moment._

MOLLY _(holding her ground):_ You ever been there?

SHERLOCK _(after a moment’s pause):_ No.

MOLLY _(trying to smile):_ That’s alright.

SHERLOCK _(after another pause, in a business-like tone, very deliberately changing the subject):_ Molly, I think I’ve changed my mind about the drink. What I _could_ use is something to eat though. _(He smiles a little apologetically.)_ I’m starving, to be honest.

MOLLY _(smiling back at him, reassured):_ I’ll find you something.

_She walks out of the room and pulls the door almost closed behind her before switching on the light in the living room. Sherlock watches her go. As soon as she is out of sight, he very ungracefully slumps down on her bed, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, propping up his forehead with the heels of his hands, the very image of complete and utter exhaustion. After a moment, he stirs again and lifts up his left leg with the help of both hands hooked under the knee, grimacing with pain, and very gingerly stretches it out across the bedspread, shoe and all. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply in relief._

 

_Molly’s kitchen. The lights are on, their bright, artificial glare a stark contrast to the muted half-light of the bedroom. Molly has the door of her more-than-half-empty fridge open, going through her sparse stores. She takes one item after another into her hand so we can see what it is. A short row of small yoghurt cups labelled „SLIMLINE Low Fat Yoghurt – Less than 0,1 % Fat!“. A small vacuumed package containing some undefined white mass. A box of „SLIMLINE Low Fat Cheese Spread“. A glass of strawberry jam. A Tupperware box which she opens and, pulling a face, quickly closes again._

MOLLY _(muttering to herself):_ Yoghurt. Tofu sausages. Leftovers from the weekend. Oh dear. He _could_ have called ahead.

_She straightens up, closes the fridge and places two of her three yoghurts on a small tray on the kitchen counter. There are already an apple, two tangerines and a large glass of orange juice on it. Molly then opens one of the overhead cupboards and sorts through the packages in there._

MOLLY: Sesame crackers. Muesli bars. _(She pulls them out.)_ With chocolate. _(Much louder than before, directing her voice towards the bedroom door)_ Sherlock?

_There is no reply. Molly waits for a few seconds, then turns back towards the cupboard. She pulls out a crumpled plastic bread bag, looking relieved._

MOLLY: Oh, good. Can’t go wrong with a sandwich.

_She opens the fridge again, gets out the cheese spread and the jam, and starts making sandwiches._

 

_A little later, Molly walks out of her kitchen, through the living room and towards the bedroom door, carrying the heavily laden tray carefully in both hands. Toby on the sofa raises his head and makes as if to get up, but she shushes him gently as she walks past him. Molly reaches the bedroom door, half-turns to push it open with her elbow, and enters._

 

_In the bedroom, Sherlock is lying on her bed, on his back, stretched out diagonally across the bedspread, one arm flung out, fully clothed and still shod, fast asleep. Molly stops dead, startled. She hesitates for a moment, then walks on tiptoe to set the tray down on the bedside cabinet. There is a small clink of glass. Molly quickly glances at Sherlock’s face, but he hasn’t moved. His mouth is slightly open and he is even snoring a little. He looks dog-tired, the light from the street-lamp outside accentuating the dark shadows under his eyes. Molly stands looking at him for a moment, a warm, almost maternal smile forming on her lips. Then she tilts her head to one side with a small frown, leans over him and with the tip of her index finger very carefully lifts up the curl of Sherlock’s hair that’s hiding the graze on his temple. She regards it for a moment, her lips pressed together, then as gently takes her finger away, letting his hair cover it again. Her gaze then travels downwards over his limp body, first to his hand, palm up, grimy fingers curled loosely around badly scraped skin. Further down towards the knees of his trousers, which have got a good scraping as well, the fabric badly rubbed and even torn in places, and finally to his left foot, hidden in its sock and shoe. Molly moves over to take a closer look. The ankle looks slightly thicker than it should be, but it's hard to tell in the dim light. The leather of the shoe, in extreme close-up, can be seen to be rather creased and worn, the leather sole badly abraded, the edges of the heel worn down a little and full of dents. It’s clearly anything but new. Molly straightens up and shakes her head at the sleeper, but she’s smiling all the same._

MOLLY _(very quietly):_ You're a silly man, Sherlock Holmes. And I don't care whether you heard that or not.

_Sherlock doesn't move. Molly steps into the small en-suite bathroom, takes an antiseptic spray and a small zippered bag – by the green cross on it a first-aid-kit – from the mirror cabinet above the washbasin, and returns to her bedroom to put them down soundlessly on the bedside cabinet next to the food tray._

 

 


	2. Part 2

_The living room. Darkness. Molly is on her sofa, curled up on her side, wrapped in a tartan blanket, her head on a lacy cushion. She is very still, but she has her eyes wide open, looking into the darkness before her with an expression of mixed content and regret. The small green numerals of the digital clock on the TV receiver across from the sofa show that it is 1:42 a. m. Toby is nowhere to be seen._

 

_The bedroom. Darkness. Seen from above, Sherlock’s dark sleeping figure on the bed is in ludicrous contrast to the exuberant roses on the bedspread. He doesn’t seem to have moved at all so far, but he’s moving now, eyes still closed, fingers twitching a little, on the edge of waking up. Then suddenly his eyes pop open, staring up at the ceiling, and he blinks rapidly a couple of times. Grimacing, he rolls over and heaves himself up into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. A glance at the large red numerals on Molly’s clock radio shows him that it is 3:19 a. m. He kicks off his right shoe, then bends down, slowly unties the laces of his left shoe and starts working it off with small, carefully movements. He hisses with the pain of it when the shoe finally comes off. He then rolls up his trouser leg and peels off his sock, revealing a badly swollen ankle, angrily red in colour. He inspects it with a detached look on his face, running his fingers tentatively across it. Then, with a sudden impetus, he stands up, attempts putting weight onto the injured foot, thinks better of it with another grimace, and ends up hopping over into the en-suite bathroom on his good right foot. He switches on the light, squinting a little at the sudden brightness, opens the mirror cabinet and quickly sorts through the little bottles and packages in it – soap, shampoo, make-up, perfume, sun-screen – until he finds what he’s looking for. He takes out two small white pills from a little plastic jar, swallows them, washes them down with water from the tap, then stands still for a moment (still only on one foot) with closed eyes, then opens the jar again and takes out a third pill, swallows it, washes it down, hesitates, then takes a fourth. Next, he picks up a white towel from the rack next to the washbasin, soaks it in cold water from the tap, wrings it out and hops back to the bed with it. He sits down again, folds it neatly and winds it around his bad ankle as a makeshift cold pack. That done, he sinks back onto the bed, and both he and we fade to black.  
_

 

_The bedroom. Grey morning light. Sherlock is sitting up on Molly's bed, his back propped comfortably against the plushy bed-head, one of the magazines from Molly’s bedside cabinet open on his lap. He has taken off his jacket and shoes and has made himself as presentable as possible with the limited means available. He has washed his hands and face, tucked in his shirt and even put some plasters on the worst grazes on his palms. The wet towel is gone, as is the first-aid kit. There is a knock on the door. He raises his head. The door opens, and Molly stands in the doorway, still in last night’s clothes, her hair tousled, looking apologetic, but no longer twisting her fingers in nervousness. Sherlock holds up the magazine he’s reading. It is an issue of the Journal of Clinical Pathology, with a brightly coloured photo of a nondescript electron microscope sample on the cover._

SHERLOCK: Is it really true your liver can regrow from less than 25 percent of its original substance when damaged?

MOLLY _(with a shrug):_ To be really sure, I’d say you need about 35 or 40 percent. It would depend on the type of the trauma, not just the extent. _(Conversationally_ ) Why, are you planning to get your liver damaged, too?

SHERLOCK _(unperturbed)_ : Just something to keep in mind, I thought. Good morning, by the way.

 _MOLLY (suspiciously, not quite sure whether he's making fun of her):_ Good morning.

_She glances at the bedside table. The food tray is the ruin of its former glory. Apparently Sherlock has eaten literally everything on it. Nothing is left except a small mound of muesli bar wrappers, tangerine peels, apple cores and empty yoghurt cups. Sherlock follows Molly’s gaze._

SHERLOCK: Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.

MOLLY _(quickly):_ That’s alright. Listen - _(embarrassed)_ I just need some things. And the bathroom.

SHERLOCK: Yes. Yes, of course.

_He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and starts fishing for his shoes. Molly walks over to her wardrobe and takes out some fresh clothes. Returning with a bundle of clothes in her arm, she makes to pass Sherlock, but then hesitates and watches him furtively. He’s put on his right shoe and is now trying to get into the left one, very gingerly, his lips pressed together. Molly takes a deep breath, gathering all the courage she can muster._

MOLLY: You know this is getting a little ridiculous.

_Sherlock abandons the attempt, straightens up and exhales audibly, but doesn’t look at her._

MOLLY: So what are you going to tell me now, that that shoe maliciously shrank overnight, or that you just happened to buy them three full sizes too small?

_Sherlock turns his head to meet her eyes, thin-lipped, not at all amused, but still silent._

MOLLY: I’m not as stupid as that, you know. I know a sprained ankle when I see one.

SHERLOCK _(sarcastically)_ : People ever die of sprained ankles?

_Molly puts the bundle of her clothes down at the foot of her bed. She’s calmly professional now, no longer embarrassed or insecure at all._

MOLLY: If it’s as swollen as that, I seriously think you should have it looked at.

SHERLOCK _(annoyed):_ You’ve been looking at it for a full minute now, what good does that do?

MOLLY _(unfazed, fishing her phone out of the pocket of her cardigan):_ You’re not walking home on that. I’m calling you a cab. And I’m calling your doctor, if you won’t listen to _me._

SHERLOCK: What doctor? _You’re_ a doctor.

MOLLY _(after a short pause, quietly):_ Yes. But you want one of those that can put things right. Not one who only tells you what went wrong.

 

_Outside Molly’s house. Sherlock and Molly are sitting companionably side by side on the low garden wall, facing the road. He is in his coat and scarf, his right foot – shod - on the ground, his left leg up across his right knee, that foot in a black sock only. The left shoe is placed next to him on the wall. On his other side, Molly is in a warm jacket, her bag at her side, ready to go to work. A cab turns the corner at the far end of Molly’s street, approaching her house. It stops at the kerb, its back door opens and John Watson gets out. Molly stands up while Sherlock remains seated. John looks from one to the other in slightly puzzled amusement._

JOHN: So, erm -

MOLLY _(cheerfully):_ Good morning, John. Thanks for relieving me.

_John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock picks up his shoe and wordlessly holds it out to John. John automatically takes it and, turning it in his hands, looks at it from all sides._

JOHN _(with a frown):_ Size eight and a half, Italian, expensive, well-worn. What is it? A clue?

SHERLOCK _(standing up with a grunt):_ No, just my left shoe.

_He walks past John towards the open door of the cab, limping so heavily it’s a wonder he’s still upright when he reaches it._

JOHN _(turning to watch him, shoe still in hand, appalled):_ Oh my good Lord.

SHERLOCK _(holding himself up by the edge of the open car door):_ You coming, or what?

JOHN: Er, yes. _(To Molly)_ Ruptured ligament, d'you think?

MOLLY: Partially ruptured at least. Anterior talofibular, second grade, most likely. But get it X-rayed as soon as you can. If he tries to walk even one more step before it’s been properly cared for, tie him down.

JOHN _(with an amused glance in Sherlock’s direction):_ I love life far too much to try that, Molly.

SHERLOCK _(peeved):_ Can you two stop now?

MOLLY _(to John, with a smile):_ Yes, I know. Good luck.

 

_Later. The living room, 221b Baker Street. Sherlock is in his armchair, his bad leg up on the low coffee table between his chair and John’s, his foot resting on an untidy stack of old magazines, newspapers and general clutter. He’s still in the same suit, the left trouser leg turned up neatly to reveal that his calf and ankle are now encased in a brand-new bright blue Aircast over a rigorously professional snow-white bandage. John is walking around the room, opening the curtains._

SHERLOCK: You know, about last night.

JOHN _(over his shoulder, in a non-committal tone):_ Yes?

SHERLOCK: What Lestrade has been telling me about it is all rubbish. I think he’s approaching the whole thing from a totally wrong direction.

_John returns to where Sherlock is sitting, and picks up the Union Jack cushion from his own chair._

SHERLOCK _(impatiently):_ Yes, maybe he’s had to handle this sort of thing so much more often than I have, but -

JOHN: Leg up.

_Without interrupting his discourse, Sherlock obediently raises his injured leg a few inches into the air._

SHERLOCK: - but I don’t think this is a case where the good old-fashioned textbook approach will do any good to the parties concerned.

_While he speaks, John picks up the magazines and newspapers, and replaces them with the Union Jack cushion._

JOHN: And down again.

_Sherlock lowers his foot onto the cushion._

SHERLOCK _(frustrated):_ And yet, I can’t see my way clear. I’m getting all those hints thrown at me, but then when the chance offers, all I get is -

JOHN _(straight-faced):_ \- a lousy breakfast?

SHERLOCK _(taken aback):_ What?

JOHN _(smugly):_ Never mind. Coffee?

SHERLOCK: John, are you listening?

JOHN: Not really. _(He walks over into the kitchen, talking over his shoulder again.)_ You know you don’t have to talk about it.

_He picks up two steaming mugs from the kitchen worktop and returns to the living room with them, placing one in front of Sherlock and sitting down in his own chair with the other._

JOHN: Besides, it’s none of my business and I’m not sure I want to hear. It’s for you to sort out. I won’t tell anyone. _(Nodding towards Sherlock’s ruined trousers)_ I won't even make a snide comment about the state of your knees. You’ve never asked for my opinion on this, but if you want it now, I don’t think it’s fair to let someone get their hopes up -

SHERLOCK _(hotly):_ I did _nothing_ to let anyone get their hopes up. On the contrary, I said from the outset that I needed time to view the ground and get my bearings, there was never going to be a quick and easy answer, and that’s what I told her, more than once. _(He pulls out his phone, angrily punches a few buttons and holds it out to John.)_ And still she’s tried to call me no less than four times in the last twelve hours to hear whether I’d made any progress, although I expressly told her that there would be no news until this morning. Do you call that letting her get her hopes up?

_John frowns, beginning to realise that this conversation is not about what he thinks it is._

JOHN: Who called you four times?

SHERLOCK _(annoyed):_ His _wife._

JOHN _(totally confused now)_ : Whose wife?

SHERLOCK: The banker’s! Silly cow. If she wants her man back in one piece she might as well let me work out how to do it and not pester me four times a day. _(Aping a crying woman)_ Ooooh, Mr Holmes, please, please find him, I’m at my wit’s end - like she’s ever had any wits in that silly little head of hers to start with. What?

_John has only just managed to put down his mug without spilling his coffee. He’s doubled over in his chair, bubbling over with badly suppressed laughter._

SHERLOCK: _What?_

_John throws his head back and bursts into honest, unrestrained merriment._

JOHN: Oh, I can't believe it. This is hilarious.

SHERLOCK _(annoyed):_ Is it?

JOHN _(still laughing):_ Oh, brilliant!

SHERLOCK _(drily):_ Thank you.

JOHN _(helplessly shaking his head, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes):_ I’m a dork. I knew it would be too good to be true.

SHERLOCK: What would?

JOHN: Us having this conversation.

SHERLOCK: We _are_ having this conversation.

_John jumps up from his chair, walks over to Sherlock and pats him on the shoulder._

JOHN: Never mind me, Sherlock. You’re doing well, I’m sure you are. Forget what I said, forget everything, just focus on what you do best, and don’t let anything else get in your way.

_Sherlock looks up at him with a raised eyebrow._

JOHN _(encouragingly):_ You must have gathered _some_ data last night to build on. Here. _(He turns and picks up Sherlock’s computer from the dining table.)_ Catch. _(It lands neatly on Sherlock’s lap.)_ Get working. Solve it from your armchair, like all your best cases. _(Without waiting for an answer, he walks back into the kitchen, picks up his jacket from the back of one of the chairs, and puts it on.)_ And if you’ve got everything you need for now, I’ll be out for a bit. You’ll be insufferable for the next two to three hours, so I’d rather not be there.

_Sherlock gives him a dirty look, then dutifully opens and starts his computer._

JOHN _(patting his pockets for his keys):_ Back with lunch. _(Sternly, pointing a commanding finger at Sherlock)_ Don’t move.

_He turns to leave through the side door._

SHERLOCK _(calling after him without raising his head_ ): John?

JOHN _(popping his head back in at the door):_ Yes?

SHERLOCK _(his eyes still on the computer screen):_ Just for the record - Molly’s flat is all carpet. _(He pops out the “t”.)_

_John stares._

SHERLOCK _(mock-cheerfully):_ Bye-bye!

 

 

* * *  
THE END

September 2014

 

 


End file.
